


Gambling Men

by mogwai_do



Series: Three Degrees 'Verse [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some escapes are more costly than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gambling Men

The loading area was a dank, dark, echoing place stacked high with crates. It seemed deserted, but Lindsey stayed alert as he followed Methos to a small door at the back. He’d spent too long living on the edge to abandon the habit of care now. The door led to some kind of fuse room obviously used for tool storage and at first glance Lindsey was baffled: there was nothing of interest there for them. The bare bulb flickered and Lindsey blinked. The split-second darkness lifted and it was only then that he saw the few grubby hotel blankets on the floor in the corner, the small box of the sort of foods that were easily stolen – snack bars, chocolate, potato chips. Lindsey jumped as he shifted his eyes and met those of the man sitting on a crate directly in front of him. "Shit!"

A soft laugh drifted from Methos, "Lindsey MacDonald, I’d like you to meet Ethan Rayne."

Ethan Rayne: a British chaos mage of some repute, contracted a couple of times by Wolfram & Hart, and trouble with a capital T. Right now though, he looked more like a half-starved dog, beaten and cringing from the slightest sharp movement. Lindsey let his eyes roam the tiny room: the illusion had been good, good enough to fool him even after his training, and it had been dropped rather than broken, that was obvious. It seemed that this mangy cur still had some teeth.

Methos dumped the bag of groceries he had been carrying on a low crate, gesturing for Lindsey to do the same. "I'm going to have a look around. Back soon." And with that, the Immortal was gone, leaving the ex-lawyer with the apparently not-quite-ex mage.

Lindsey had only been travelling with Methos for a day, two if it was after midnight now - it was hard to tell in Vegas - and still he didn't know how to deal with the strange Immortal. Usually, he had a fairly good handle on a guy within the first few hours, if not minutes, of meeting them, but Methos had shot that record all to hell. The Immortal seemed young and enthusiastic one moment, old and cynical the next, interspersed with a kind of professional lethality that Lindsey found oddly reassuring. He had enough experience to know that there was no indication of demonic possession, which would have made sense, but all that left him with was that Methos was naturally... weird.

On the long drive from LA, he'd had the time to consider the implications of the previous night, but he was still no closer to identifying what kind of advantage Methos gained by his actions. People did not piss off Wolfram & Hart without good reason, excellent pay off, or suicidal tendencies. Yet as far as he could see, there had been no reason save Lindsey himself, and without knowing what Methos planned or hoped to gain from it, Lindsey had no way of knowing how the Immortal might react in any situation, no way to play him. For all that there was not the slightest hint of threat, it left Lindsey nearly as uncomfortable now as he had been towards the end of his tenure with Wolfram & Hart - at least with them he’d known what they wanted from him.

There hadn't even been any intimations of future favours, no attempts to take advantage of Lindsey's gratitude - that once with Methos didn't count. High on winning, he'd have fucked anyone and he’d wanted to do it in the ruins of Wolfram & Hart: that it had been Methos' shoulders he’d clawed as he'd ridden the brink of a climax outside the building where he’d died was of no account. Only later, coming down, he'd recognised Methos’ willingness as damage control and had been just as glad that Methos had had a car waiting - a car they'd switched for a battered pick-up on the edge of the city when they headed out into the desert.

A faint cough that might have been a laugh startled him from his thoughts. 

"You have no idea what you're dealing with do you?" The mage's voice was rough as he watched Lindsey through bloodshot eyes and his lips twisted into something that would have been a sneer had it been stronger.

Lindsey leaned back against the door jamb and crossed his arms, a flip answer considered and discarded. Ethan Rayne might not look like much now, but he'd been used by Wolfram & Hart in the past and they only bothered with the best. Whatever had brought the man to this, he still had something Lindsey felt the acute lack of - time-served, intimate knowledge of magick. Ethan had learned the hard way and learned it well: he'd gone far beyond the rote and ritual of magick's tourists, he was fluent and that kind of expertise was not something to underestimate.

When Lindsey failed to respond Ethan sat forward a little, fixing Lindsey with a surprisingly sharp gaze given the faint flush of fever on the otherwise pale face. 

"I gave myself to him, pawned my soul for him. Yet you he's taken in without so much as an IOU." Ethan coughed again, "I don't care, don't mistake me, he does as he chooses. But I went in with eyes wide open and I barely saw the fall, nevermind the stop at the end. And you - you're waiting for the other shoe to drop when it's really more of an ACME piano." Ethan gave a sharp laugh that quickly became wracking coughs. Wordlessly Lindsey reached into the bag he'd carried in and pulled out a bottle of water, cracking the seal and offering it. Ethan waved it away, eyes watering, slowly getting himself under control until a fresh surge had him lunging for it, swigging as much as he could without coughing it all back up.

Seeing an opportunity for answers or at least clues, Lindsey leaned forward as Ethan caught his breath, voice lowered, "Who is he?"

Ethan looked up through watering eyes and he grinned, "That's for you to work out, boy. You're a bright lad, you'll find some definition that will fit him I don't doubt - educated man like yourself."

Annoyed but not surprised, Lindsey retrieved the bottle and tried a different tack, "So what is he to you then, mage?"

Ethan shrugged, "That's for me to know."

"And me to find out," Lindsey completed resignedly.

Ethan's eyes glittered and it wasn't with tears this time, "Oh no, boy, that one's for me alone."

Lindsey scowled at the darkly malicious humour in the mage’s eyes - he was being fucked with. He kicked the bag of groceries hard, sending the contents scattering across the concrete floor, he'd forgotten that bit of the mage's rep and he was as pissed with himself as he was with the mage for it. First Constantine, now Rayne, even Methos, though Lindsey was prepared to bet that the Immortal only sounded British. Was it something in the water over there that bred such arrogant bastards? Fuck it. Without another word he turned and left the tiny room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a bang.

****

Ethan slumped back against the boxes, drained and yet relieved by his exchange with the boy. He wondered if Lindsey knew just how easy he was to read at the moment, at least for someone like Ethan. Lindsey had always been a pawn in a game not of his making and he’d been bright enough to see it and use it; now he was floundering and frustrated, trying to work out what the rules were for this new game he’d been dealt into. Ethan wondered how long it would take Lindsey to realise that this game had no rules but the ones you made yourself, and there were no pawns - only queens. Ah humour, he almost remembered what that felt like.

The lawyer in Lindsey wanted security, the sort he'd had with Wolfram & Hart, whether he realised it or not: power, money, and influence were all means to that end. Oh Lindsey was by no means averse to risk as the occasion demanded or he wouldn't be in this situation right now. But he still kept angling for that supposed safety - in knowledge, in power, in order - breaking him of it was going to be a challenge. The truth was that the man had gained more than he had lost, and found a new and unfamiliar kind of sanctuary, but telling him that this early in the game would be no fun at all.

Ethan yawned and slumped a little further back against the crate, ignoring the way the edge dug into his shoulder blades. Maintaining the wards to fend off the nightmares was almost as exhausting as the nightmares themselves, but it was a choice between barely functional and not functional at all. It felt like it had been a long time since he’d made a choice that hadn’t been between the lesser of two evils. He let his eyes slip closed and tried to gather up the strength he would need to deal with the lawyer in the longer term, because in his own mind at least there was no other reason for Methos’ introduction.

"That trick with the chips upstairs in the casino is a work of art. A little sympathetic resonance spread out over so many, not enough to hit the radars, but enough to keep you up and moving, feeding off a city populous and chaotic enough to hide you. Very nicely done." Methos' voice slid softly through the air as he stepped from the shadows of the now-open door. Ethan’s head snapped up, his sharp gasp of surprise turning into another bout of coughing that he tried and failed to stifle.

His ribs ached and his throat was raw, yet he couldn't stop. He didn't even realise he'd dropped to his knees on the floor, hunched over as if it helped, until he felt Methos come to a stop in front of him and saw the scuffed boots in his line of vision. Methos' coat billowed around him like solid shadow as the Immortal leaned down and a warm hand came to rest on Ethan’s back, the heat of it tangible even through the layers of cloth. The coughing eased and for a long moment Ethan could think of nothing save getting air back into his starved lungs.

Strong, deft fingers tucked his overlong hair from his face, continuing the movement to slide along his jaw to his chin, tipping his head up. Ethan glimpsed Methos’ face for only the briefest moment before his mind caught up and he dropped his gaze.

The fingers slid from his jaw to his cheek and he felt the dull ache of cracked bone intensify briefly as it fused.

"Breathe."

Ethan obeyed the softly spoken word without hesitation, feeling the air catch at the raw flesh of his throat, stinging as he inhaled. A gentle stroke of a thumb over his now healed face and he breathed out, finding it easier the more air left his lungs as if he were simply exhaling the pain.

"Better."

Ethan said nothing, just focused on keeping his breathing slow and even, savouring the newfound ease of it. He felt the slide of the cool, dry hand against his own grimy skin and wished for a moment that he could have found a better way to keep clean than occasionally sneaking into the bathrooms at the dog end of the night when even the casinos were almost empty.

He felt a single finger follow the tendons in his neck to the curve of his shoulder and then back along the ridge of his collarbone; it was heat and itching more than pain as the badly-healed bone reshaped itself. Then both hands moved to cup his jaw, lifting his face and he almost panicked, not knowing whether to keep his eyes open or not.

"Close them," came the soft whisper and so he did.

Coffee-scented breath wafted over his face and soft lips pressed gently to his forehead, to his right eye and then his left, lashes snagging on lips. A tongue, warm and wet against his lips, prompted him to open his mouth. Soft lips rested gently against his, sealing comfortably as three long breaths exchanged lungs. The contact broke and Ethan felt suddenly washed out and empty, his wards broken and his nightmares suddenly less. He tried to suppress a shiver and failed.

Ethan felt Methos step back and the almost imperceptible change in the air as he moved to leave. He warred with himself, need fighting with the sheer wrongness of acting of his own volition in this space and time, but it was need that won in the end and gratitude.

He had to consciously force himself to reach back to his belt and the soldier's knife he had acquired during his escape - what it lacked in elegance it more than made up for in sharpness. Ethan found it difficult to open his eyes, seeing Methos' feet at the edge of his vision, but not daring to look up. He kept his focus on the hand he extended as he drew the blade from the heel of his hand to the base of his middle finger and watched the blood flow freely from the deep cut. He raised his bleeding hand a little higher and let his eyes close and his head bow once more in offering. His heart hammered in his chest in fear and anticipation, hopeful as Methos’ actions had left him, this was the true measure: a man might spare an injured horse, but it didn’t necessarily mean he would race it again, however well it healed.

A familiar touch gripped his hand lightly, a strong thumb pressed down firmly at the base of the cut, then wet, mobile pressure followed the line of parted flesh, stinging as it went. Ethan fought to keep his hand from curling around the face so near, too soon it was gone. A second hand joined the first as they closed Ethan's hand into a loose fist, holding it for a long moment.

A chuckle, low and rich, seemed to come from everywhere at once and echoed in the empty spaces where his night terrors had once lived. "Oh I do like you, Ethan." Then nothing - Methos was gone.

Ethan remained unmoving for a silent minute, head bowed; when he finally opened his eyes the room was empty, the door shut. He got to his feet slowly, half-expecting twinges and aches that never came. Cautiously he uncurled his fist, seeing the unmarked flesh glisten faintly. He took a deep breath, his heartbeat was loud in his ears, but in exultation now rather than fear. It had been a risk, but a necessary one, a blood sacrifice to give proper thanks: for the ease of his breathing, for the lack of pain, for the coincidences and the fortune that had made his escape possible, and now for the means of his revenge.

Lindsey MacDonald: a back-country bumpkin with the ambition and the talent to not only survive, but thrive in Wolfram & Hart’s notoriously cut-throat environment. Imaginative, capable, ruthless and possessed of a sheer bloody-mindedness that had probably served him better than he knew - it was a good start. Ethan intended to teach him, to use him and no doubt be used by him in turn. He felt a smile curl his lips and for the first time in far too long he felt something like himself again. Ethan Rayne had hidden for long enough; now, with Lindsey’s assistance, it was finally time to take the Initiative – he had no doubt it would be a learning experience for all involved.

 

FIN


End file.
